ZONDERVAN

Jesus without Borders

Copyright 2015 by Chad Gibbs
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ISBN: 978-0-310-32554-3
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from The Holy Bible, New
International Version, NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by
permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
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and numbers for the life of this book, nor does Zondervan endorse the authors bizarre
obsession with BillyD. Williams.
All rights reserved. Including the right to remain silent if you do not enjoy this book,
along with the right to party, which you gotta fight for. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, used as a doorstop, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or
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except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Authors note: Some of the names in this book have been changed. Not legally, mind you;
I dont have that sort of authority. The names have been changed only in the pages of this
book, and this was done by request, not because I thought the persons parents did a poor
job naming them.
Cover design: Jarrod Taylor
Interior photography: Chad Gibbs
Interior design: Mark Sheeres
First printing January 2015/Printed in the United States of America

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CONTENTS

Prologue. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Brazil. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Spain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
England . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Russia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Uganda. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Italy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Japan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
The Netherlands. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
Australia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
China . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
Israel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173
India. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
Turkey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205
Epilogue. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221
Acknowledgments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229
Appendix: A Call to Travel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231

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BRAZIL
NOV E MBE R

When twilight dims the sky above,

recalling thrills of our love,
theres one thing Im certain of:
Return, I will, to old Brazil.

2 0 11

Ary Barroso, Brazil

21

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Brazil

r. Gibbs, what was the reason for your visit to Brazil?

The immigration officer stood waiting for an answer to the
question Id been dreading since we arrived back on American soil a
little before four in the morning. I wasnt dreading the question in a
so I could stuff my body cavities with contraband and sneak it into
the country sort of way; it was just that, to be honest, I didnt have any
reason for visiting Brazil. The trip was the result of a surplus of frequent
flier miles, an idea for a book that no publisher had agreed to publish, and my wifes having a couple of days off work in early November.
However, none of those things sounded like a reasonable explanation to
give that frowning person who, I believed, had the authority to send me
straight to Guantanamo Bay.
Preceding this trip, my knowledge of Brazil was sketchy at best. I
knew where it is on the globe, because, as you know, I once owned a
globe. I also knew Brazil is the worlds leading exporter of swimsuit
models. But apart from these things, when I thought of Brazil, I wasnt
really sure what to think. Which is why Tricia and I spent most of our
flight frantically reading about Brazil in the various travel guides wed
borrowed from the Auburn Public Library, which was probably unaware we planned to take the guides out of the country.
Tricia was the first to find a fun fact. Did you know that if you dont
include Alaska, Brazil is actually larger than the United States?
Why wouldnt we include Alaska?
I dont know. Thats just what the book says.
If we count only states called Rhode Island, Switzerland is larger
than the United States. Your book is stupid.
Youre stupid, Geography Boy.
We touched down a little before 10:00 a.m. at Galeao International
Airport and made our way through customs, which in Brazil is efficient, though perhaps less than thorough.
Are you bringing things into our country you shouldnt?
No.
Good! Welcome to Brazil.
Most everything in the arrivals terminal was written in Portuguese,

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but an official sign told us in English that the airport advised using
the prepaid taxi services, which were being run by hysterical women
in booths who kept screaming, You want taxi! at every person who
walked past them. We figured such an official sign couldnt be wrong,
so we approached one of these women, and once she calmed down, we
gave her R$99 for safe passage to our hotel.
The tropical spring air of Brazil was quite a contrast with the
late autumn day wed left behind in Atlanta, but before I could even
comment, a man with a walkie-talkie grabbed my receipt and began
pointing and yelling at several other men equally armed with walkie-talkies. I feared they were discussing which ones would hold us down
while the others stole our money, but soon we found ourselves in the
back of an unmarked black cab with a driver who, apparently, mistook
us for Hollywood stunt drivers looking to be impressed.
Once on the Avenida Brasil (a street name that I believe translates
as Avenue of Fiery Death), I realized our driver was just driving the
way it seemed all Brazilians drive, like inebriated Earnhardts. There
was lots of swerving and accelerating, but then we hit traffic and it
was a slow trudge, except for the motorcycles, which zipped down the
highway between lanes of traffic, constantly honking their horns, lest
someone open a door and ruin their day. At places where the traffic
had stopped completely, men, women, and children were out walking
among the cars, selling sodas and snacks while dodging motorcycles. I
thought vehicle-to-vehicle salesman has to be one of the five worst jobs
on the planet.
Driving from the airport through Rios North Zone, we passed
many poor neighborhoods. Tricia and I exchanged what have we
gotten ourselves into looks as we drove by abandoned buildings, rundown housing projects, and of course Brazils famed favelas.
The favelas are beautiful from a distance. Multicolored buildings
running up mountainsides give you the impression youre looking at
a Mediterranean vacation village. But on closer inspection, you realize
these villas are actually shacks, home to Brazils poor. Drug lords and
other deviants are scattered throughout the favelas, though it would

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be wrong to assume everyone living there would enjoy robbing you at

gunpointa hyperbolic assertion I came across on a message board
or two. That being said, the favelas do have some pretty astronomical
murder rates, which is why Tricia and I had no plans to visit them on
our trip.
We arrived, by the grace of God, a little after noon at our hotel,
where we splashed some water in our eyes before walking down to
Copacabana Beach, perhaps the most famous beach in the world.
Copacabana Beach is almost two and a half miles long and shaped
like a crescent moon, and the first thing you notice is how wide it is. This
is because the hotels are all across Avenida Atlantica, leaving the sand
unspoiled for volleyball nets, soccer goals, and workout equipment.
As for beach attire, what you and I call skimpy, Brazilians call modest. Men, women, and children all were in Speedos and G-strings, and
none seemed the least bit self-conscious about it. And sure, some of
them had the bodies to pull off these swimsuits, or lack thereof, but
many did not. Still, no one seemed to care. Surprisingly, Tricia said,
this place does wonders for your body image. And I guess it does. Go
to Copacabana Beach and you wont be the best looking person in a
skimpy swimsuit, but you certainly wont be the worst.
We dipped our feet in the Atlantic, which was freezing, then took a
stroll up the beach, dodging frisbees and soccer balls, quickly turning
our heads when we saw more of someones behind than we wanted to
see. After a while we walked back up toward the road and walked a
little more on the Portuguese pavement of the Copacabana promenade,
stopping later for a burger at one of the beachside cafes.
Are we really here? Tricia asked, staring down the beach at the
waves crashing into Morro do Leme.
Well, if its a dream, lets not pay for lunch.
But it wasnt a dream. We were in Brazil, looking out at the most
spectacular stretch of ocean Id ever seen, eating average hamburgers
and struggling to stay awake. Anything seemed possible.

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That evening Creedence Clearwater Revival asked through our taxis

speakers if wed ever seen the rain. It was early Friday evening now, and
we were on our way to church. I dont get the impression that Brazilians
typically attend church on Friday night; they seem to be Sunday morning folks, like us. But this was a new church, and they were trying new
things. In fact this was the first ever service for this church, which was
going to be called River Church.1
In the weeks leading up to this trip, Id scoured the internet searching for churches to visit and believers to talk to, and when I came across
River Church, I couldnt believe my eyes. Not because a church was
holding its first service the day we would arrive, which was quite a coincidence, but because Andrew, the man starting it, is from Sylacauga,
Alabama, about an hours drive from where we live.
I contacted Andrew immediately to find out why someone from the
Cauga was starting a church in Rio de Janeiro. Turns out Andrew had
married a Brazilian, Juliana, and the two of them had spent time in
Europe and Africa and were now back in Rio to start a church.
Tonight was the first of three prelaunch services for River Church,
and Andrew planned to lay out the mission of the new church to the
forty or so folks who would show up. We were, I suspect, the only international visitors.
River Church had rented an auditorium on the second floor of
Centro Empresarial Botafogo, a high-rise building in Rio, and upstairs
we met Andrew, who gave the impression of a man whod spent the
previous ten hours pounding double espressos. Id never given much
thought to starting a church, but apparently there are a lot of moving
parts, and Andrew was in charge of most of them. Tonight the video
screen was not cooperating, and Andrew was anxiously trying to get
it working. Even so, he stopped to greet us, thanking us repeatedly for
the two large jars of creamy peanut butter, a delicacy hard to come by
in Brazil, that wed smuggled brought from the States. Then he asked,
Will you two stand here and greet people as they arrive?
1. Rio de Janeiro actually means January River. The Portuguese explorers who discovered
it on January 1, 1502, thought theyd found the mouth of a mighty river. They had not.

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Tricia said yes before I could say no, and we took our posts at the
door.
You do realize we dont speak Portuguese?
So?
So, welcoming them in English might not be very welcoming.
Wed looked over some common Portuguese phrases on the plane
and tried to remember what the word for welcome is, but neither of us
could. It was like a test wed forgotten to study for. Soon the first visitors
to River Church were arriving, and we decided to just smile and nod as
they passed through.
After the first group, I told Tricia the smiling and nodding was a
little creepy. They probably think were brainwashed and theyre joining a cult. Just then Andrew came running by and I asked for the
Portuguese word for welcome.
Boas-vindas, he said.
Boas-vindas, we repeated.
And when the next group came through, we greeted them with
a hearty boas-vindas, to which they replied, in perfect English,
Thanks. Are you two from the States?
The service was supposed to begin at 7:00 p.m., but now it was 7:30,
and Andrew explained that River Church would be run on Rio time,
which meant it was after 9:00 p.m. before a couple of guys took the stage
and began to play worship songs. The tunes were familiar Chris Tomlin,
Hillsong, and Jesus Culture songs, but the words were very Portuguese.
The good thing about worship songs, though, is you tend to repeat six
words over and over for the better part of half an hour, so we soon found
ourselves praising God in a foreign language,2 which was pretty cool.
From time to time the singer switched to English, which was great, but
by the end I kind of preferred the Portuguese.
After thirty minutes of worship, Andrew and Maria, one of the
founding members of River Church, took the stage to talk about the
churchs mission. At first Andrew spoke in English, while Maria
2. Im assuming thats what we were doing, though I cant rule out the possibility that the
whole time we were singing about mayonnaise.

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translated into Portuguese, then after a few sentences, they switched

languages. It was impressive, and I began to wonder if linguistic gymnastics had been added to the 2016 Olympic Games in Rio and these
two were training for the gold.
We are a relationship movement, Andrew said, unified, not
defined by what divides us, but defined by the power and presence of
God, on us and through us.
The passion in Andrews voice was evident, and I scanned the room
of attentive faces, wishing we could move here to be a part of this new
church. This new adventure.
Our assignment is simple, Andrew said in closing, transform the
planet.
And with that, some people went down front and prayed for the
future of the new church, while Tricia and I made our way toward the
food in the back.3 While I was stuffing my face with little ham sandwiches, Tricia began talking to Claudia, a young woman wed met
earlier in the lobby.
Turns out Claudia had spent the last two years studying in the States,
first at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, where she earned her
PhD, then at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore for her postdoctoral fellowship. When Im intimidated by someones intelligence, as I was with
Claudias, I tend to ask dumber questions than normal. So why do you
guys paint lines on your roads if no one pays attention to them anyway? Claudia smiled at me the way I smile at my nephew when he tells
the world his diaper is stinky, then she turned around and resumed
smart person talk with Tricia.
We hung around fellowshiping for an hour or so, but it was getting
late, and despite the Brazilian coffee River Church was serving, Tricia
and I were exhausted from our thirty-six-hour day. We said goodnight
to Andrew, Juliana, and the rest of the wonderful people wed met and
then took a taxi back to the hotel for a night of dreamless sleep.

3. Shut up, we were starving.

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The River Church service felt similar to a typical service back home in
so many ways, but still there were obviously some differences between
believers here and believers back home; I was just having trouble putting my finger on them.4 After we returned home, I spoke to Emilio,
a friend of a friend, and a Brazilian pastor of a Presbyterian church in
Brasilia. Protestants are the minority here, he told me, unlike in the
USA, and for decades there was some persecution of Protestantsnot
too harsh, but still. Back then, people who claimed to be Protestants
really meant it, but more recently this group has grown to the point that
you now have many nominal Protestants, like you do in the States and
like many Catholics here.
Emilio attended seminary in Mississippi, so I was eager to ask him
what differences he saw between Christians in the US and Christians in
Brazil. His answer surprised me.
Christians in Brazil tend to be way less involved in politics. We
are not a society that has two parties with clear stances like the US
does. Things here are much more nuanced, and voting for a given party
relates very little to your religious affiliation. I see American Christians
naively associating their country with the kingdom of God; here believers are less prone to such things. We are less enthusiastic about our
countrys history, military achievements, anthem singing,5 and all of
that. Its not a lack of patriotism; its just a greater separation between
a citizenship in heaven and one on earth. There would never be a flag
ceremony or singing of the national anthem during a church service
here.
Living in Alabama my entire life, Ive gone to my share of God and
country services at church, and for years I never thought twice about
American flags in the sanctuary or wondered why The Star-Spangled
Banner is in the Baptist hymnal or even considered how God Bless
America must sound to foreign ears. But lately Ive been more concerned with these things, not because Im unpatriotic or because Im
4. The differences, not the believers.
5. I assume now that Emilio was talking about anthem singing in church, because anyone
who watched the 2014 World Cup knows that Brazilians are really into anthem singing.

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ungrateful for the sacrifices that have been made by our servicemen
and women, but because Im not sure why we so eagerly want to associate our imperfect country with a perfect God. Ive read the Bible,
and unless I missed it while skimming through parts of Numbers, the
United States of America isnt mentioned. Yet so many of us have a hard
time believing God would have a plan for our lives that doesnt align
with the American dream.
Then Emilio touched on why the service still felt American in many
ways, as did many of the church websites Id browsed before our trip.
Brazilians tend to imitate American culture, he said, without much
filter. That goes for Christians as well, so practices, ideas, and theology, good and bad, are assimilated without much reflection. Every
trend in American culture and the American Church will soon find
its way into Brazil. Hearing this was both encouraging and terrifying,
because American culture and American Christian culture both have
produced some amazing things, but weve also produced Keeping Up
with the Kardashians and Christian T-shirts that rip off every fast-food
restaurant logo. It serves as a good reminder to us all to be careful what
we produce, because the world is watching and imitating.

When I travel, adrenaline usually carries me through the first day, but
the second morning always gets me. Our room in Brazil was just dark
enough, and the pillows were just soft enough, that sleeping until 3:00
p.m. was a distinct possibility. But we were in the country for only a
few days, so we groggily downed a few more cups of Brazilian coffee
and took a taxi to the bottom of Corcovado Mountain. At 2,329 feet,
Corcovado stands out, even among the other peaks that make Rio so
spectacular. But its the 130-foot statue of Jesus, Cristo Redentor or
Christ the Redeemer, that makes this one of the New Seven Wonders
of the World.
At 9:30 lines were already forming, and after a forty-five-minute
wait, we were on one of the rickety trains winding their way up
Corcovado. The morning was cloudy, and quickly we climbed into the

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clouds, where there were no stunning vistas, just a sea of gray. Its a little
disconcerting to keep going up, but not being able to see whats ahead
of you. Occasionally wed pass through a break in the clouds, and Id
notice the train was perched on the edge of the world, with nothing
between us and the abyss. I shut my eyes and waited until wed stopped
at the top.
Corcovado is part of the Tijuca Forest, a rainforest home to all sorts
of creatures not native to Alabama, including monkeys, which were
everywhere. Walking from the train past the first food stand, we noticed
monkeys on the roof begging for food, and sometimes getting it, from
a daring tourist. A couple of Australian girls stood next to us watching in amazement as men passed potato chips to the grateful primates.
You know, I said, this is how every virus-outbreak movie begins.
The Australians agreed, and we left before contracting Motaba virus.
We kept climbing stairs into the gray nothingness until there were
no more stairs to climb, and then we saw it, or at least its silhouette.
Christ the Redeemer, taller than Godzilla, his head not even visible
through the fog. We walked around him a couple of times, craning our
necks up at the ghostly figure, then found a place to stand against the
viewing platform wall. On a clear day, we would have had one of the
most spectacular panoramic views on earth, but today all we could do
was watch hundreds of disappointed people looking up at the massive
concrete Savior in the haze.
The air on Corcovado was cool, and when a thick cloud blew
through, we were covered with a chilly mist. We stood there for an
hour or so, with nowhere else to go, when off to the south we noticed a
patch of blue sky. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, Christ the Redeemer
emerged from the clouds. The crowds went slightly insane, screaming
and pointing and desperately trying to pose for photographs in front of
the reclusive Son of God. Shut your eyes and youd have thought Jesus
himself had returned to Brazil. And as quickly as he appeared, Christ
the Redeemer returned to the clouds. Some people booed.6 Tricia and I
spent three more hours on Corcovado, eating lunch, dodging monkeys,
6. Some people being Tricia.

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and enjoying the otherworldly weather, but judging by the silence atop
the mountain, Christ the Redeemer, like Boo Radley, would not come
out.
Now we were in full tourist mode, so we took a taxi to Sugarloaf
Mountain, Rios other famous peak. Sugarloaf, as you may recall from
James Bonds Moonraker, is accessed by glass-paneled cable cars. We
paid R$30, boarded the next car, and nervously ascended the mountain,
because as you will also recall from Moonraker, the cables are so thin
they can be bitten in two by men with metal teeth. Thankfully no such
men were in Rio this day, and we made it safely to the top.
By now the morning clouds had mostly dissipated, and what were
left only accented the beautiful sunset. From atop Sugarloaf you have
a 360-degree panorama of beaches, mountains, islands, oceans, bays,
and the city, sparkling in the setting sun.
We spent the better part of three hours atop Sugarloaf waiting for the
sun to set behind the mountains, and once it did, Christ the Redeemer
began to glow atop Corcovado. Well, he didnt actually glowthey put
floodlights on himbut still, to see a massive, glowing Christ with
arms outstretched, standing high above the city, was perhaps the most
breathtaking thing Id ever seen. And I know its only concrete and
rebar, but when you read in Revelation about the city that does not need
the sun because its lit by the glory of God, well, you cant help but think
Rio is a little glimpse of heaven.

Despite our lifelong Protestantism, we woke up Sunday morning and

went to Mass. We were on a tour to see how Christianity is done abroad,
after all. On our taxi ride through Botafogo, we passed hundreds, if not
thousands, of Brazilians playing socceron the beach, on hard courts,
on grass fields. I suppose these were recreational leagues of some sort,
and I got the feeling we may have been looking at the true national
religion of Brazil.
We reached the Catedral Metropolitana de Sao Sebastiao a few minutes before ten, which is when we believed Mass would begin, though

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the website wed found wasnt exactly clear. The seat of the archbishop
of Rio de Janeiro, the Metropolitan Cathedral looks a bit like a futuristic pyramid whose top has been knocked off. Inside, four stained-glass
windows soar from the ground to the ceiling, 246 feet above, and the
design in the walls gives you the impression youve stumbled into an
oversized beehive. The cathedral has standing room for twenty thousand worshipers, though that much room would not be needed today.
A few hundred people, mostly children, were already seated in the two
sections in front of the altar, and we took our seats farther back to stay
out of the way.
We were handed a program in Portuguese, which, as Ive mentioned, we do not speak or read, but still we were able to somewhat keep
up with the order of the Mass. First a choir perched high above the altar
sang a song that sounded a lot like O God, Our Help in Ages Past,
which was followed by an hour of sitting, standing, repeating, and more
singing, until we came to the word homilia in the program. Surely the
homily wont take long, I whispered to Tricia. I figured since the service was already running long by my Methodist standards, there was
no way this robed priest was going to talk for more than a few minutes,
but after half an hour he was still going strong. Tricia leaned over and
whispered, Whats the Portuguese word for long-winded?
By far the strangest thing about the service were the tourists. Not
tourists like us who were sitting through the service, but shorts and
T-shirt tourists who kept walking in the four massive doors, whispering
loudly, and taking pictures, seemingly oblivious to the worship service
going on in front of them. At times more than fifty tourists were milling around the edges of the cathedral, and there were always at least a
dozen of them standing near the doors.
Sitting there, I made assumptions about the Catholic faith. It is
dead, I thought, and the only people they can get to come to Mass are
children who have no choice and tourists who dont care. And just then
a man walked past us in a number13 Mller German National Team
jersey. He looked every bit the disrespectful tourist, and I thought for a
moment he was going to walk up and try to pose for a photograph with

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the priest. But the man took a seat in front of us, then dropped to his
knees and began to pray fervently. Then he stood and joined the line
to take Communion, and once he was done, he walked out past us into
the street.
A few weeks after I returned home, I asked my friends on Facebook
if theyd ever worshiped in a foreign country, and my few Catholic
friends said they made it a point to go to Mass whenever they were on
vacation. Ive never made it a point to worship on vacation, and here I
was calling another branch of the faith dead. Its great to be reminded
we are not experts on the things we know nothing about.

Andrew from River Church kindly offered to take us to lunch a few

days later on our last afternoon in Brazil. We went to Fogo de Cho,
a Brazilian steak house in Botafogo, although in Brazil I suppose they
are just called steak houses. The deal here is you get a card that is red
on one side, green on the other, and if you place the card green side up,
men will continue to pile slices of beef, pork, poultry, and other sundry
animals on your plate until the stack reaches the ceiling. Flip your card
over to red, and the men will stand aside as you attempt to eat the skyscraper of meat in front of you. It was one of the greatest hours of my
life, and between bites I tried to ask Andrew questions about Christian
life in Brazil.
Its a very spiritual country, he said, cutting up a filet mignon.
These surveys will come out and you learn 85percent of the country
consider themselves Christian, and that 85 percent of the country is
poor. Its not like in Alabama, where the wealthy businessmen are also
leaders in the church. You dont see church as a networking place like
you sometimes do back home.
Do you prefer this? I asked Andrew. Would you rather be planting
a church in such a spiritual place, as opposed to, say, Western Europe,
where attitudes toward spiritual things are maybe a little cooler?
Andrew thought for a second, or maybe he was trying to chew his
food, then said, I do love Europe, but each part of the world has a

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unique set of challenges. Brazil is very spiritual, but there is also this
pervading culture of guilt.
Id noticed this when Andrew spoke a few nights before at River
Church. He kept coming back to the fact that it is okay if you miss
church one week, and it is okay if you have a beer with dinner; we are
not going to condemn each other for these things. Another challenge,
he said, is that the highest percentage of Protestants in Brazil classify
themselves as unchurched. So not only do we want to reach the lost, we
want to reach believers and bring them into a loving Christian community. So sure, I would love to plant a church in Europe, but we have a lot
of work to do here.
It was raining that night when we boarded our plane, and low-
hanging clouds blotted out the city lights just after takeoff. But as we
continued to rise, we broke through the clouds and into a clear South
American night. And thats when we saw it, off in the distance atop
Corcovado, Christ the Redeemer, his glory lighting the city, his outstretched arms calling us back. I watched out the window until the
statue finally faded into the night, then I shut my eyes, wondering if Id
ever see it again.

Mr. Gibbs?
Huh?
Your reason for visiting Brazil?
Apparently I had not answered quickly enough, and I knew armed
guards would soon be escorting me to an interrogation room, where
electrodes would be attached to my toes. I guess I could have told him
about the warm, loving people wed met in Brazil, including those of
River Church, whose simple goal is to transform the planet for Christ.
I could have told him about the barefoot children playing soccer in the
street outside our hotel or the barefoot children selling soda on the
highway. I could have told him about drinking coconut water through
straws, or about the steak house or the monkeys or the rain forest or the
Speedos or the glowing Savior standing high above the city at night, his

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35

outstretched arms calling me back. I could have told him about Brazil
until he was sick of hearing about it, but I didnt.
It was just a vacation, I said, and he handed back my passport.
But it was the beginning of so much more.

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SPAIN
Well I never been to Spain,
but I kinda like the music.

F E B R UA R Y 2 01 2

Three Dog Night,

Never Been to Spain

37

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Spain

f this book were a ship, then Spain would be a stowaway. Not to say
I wasnt planning to visit the Kingdom on the Iberian Peninsula; I
just had no intention of writing about the visit. My friend Jordan Ross,
whom Tricia blames for my growing love of soccer, and I simply wanted
to watch an FC Barcelona match, eat some tapas, then travel to England
for the next chapter of this book, a book Zondervan had recently agreed
to publish. But travel will surprise you, and oftentimes the unplanned
moments are the ones you remember most.
We flew to Madrid, via Miami, on Tuesday, February7. The flight
path took us directly across the Atlantic Ocean, and during the middle of the night, the plane began acting like a giant shake weight. The
captain, who, if memory serves me correctly, was crying, asked all the
flight attendants to buckle up, and I watched them rush up and down
the aisles, one of them falling over into some seats during a particularly nasty bump. And while I was thinking of sins I could give up as
a bargaining chip with God, Jordan, who is an engineer and shouldnt
believe in things like this, leaned over and said, Wouldnt we be over
the Bermuda Triangle right about now? I ignored this question and
continued praying until the fasten seat belts sign dinged off a few
minutes later, at which point I acted like nothing had happened and
resumed reading Hemingways Death in the Afternoon.
We landed around 9:00 a.m., and after a brief stare down with an
incredibly bored immigration agent, Jordan and I were out of Madrids
futuristic airport and on the metro, making our way downtown.
Through some rather poor planning on my part, we had about forty-seven minutes to explore Madrid, and as any seasoned traveler will
tell you, you need at least an hour to see it all. So we decided to catch the
Plaza Mayor and the Royal Palace and miss whatever was left.
We hopped off at Puerta del Sol, Madrids Times Square, and I
quickly realized I had no idea which direction we should walk, so I
activated international data on my phone and pulled up Google Maps.
Within seconds I began receiving one text message after another.
You have exceeded $50 in international roaming charges.
You have exceeded $100 in international roaming charges.

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You have exceeded $150 in international roaming charges.

You have exceeded the GDP of Canada in international roaming
charges.
You have somehow exceeded in international roaming
charges.
I can loan you twenty bucks, if that will help, Jordan said, but again
I ignored him. I knew I had purchased an international data package,
but these texts were too scary to ignore, so I called my phone company
and a nice lady told me that sometimes the system doesnt recognize the
new data plan immediately, and that I did not owe them $1,946,424,394,
as my phone suggested. I thanked her, then pulled up Google Maps
again, and soon Jordan and I were standing in the Plaza Mayor, which
was empty because it was thirty-two degrees.
Slightly disappointed and considerably freezing, we walked on farther to the Royal Palace of Madrid, which is the official residence of
Juan CarlosI, the king of Spain. Juan Carlos and his family dont actually live in the palace, because at 1,450,000 square feet, its possible the
king could get lost on his way to the bathroom and never be seen again.
Instead the king and his family live at the Palace of Zarzuela, which is
a more modest 33,900 square feet. The Royal Palace, best we could tell
from the twenty frostbitten minutes we stared at it, was built primarily
as a means to attract gawking foreigners.
Then our forty-seven minutes were up and we had to rush to Atocha
Station to catch our train to Barcelona. These train tickets cost us $120,
and I still am not sure if they were a good deal. Thats because Spaniards,
like the rest of Europe, use the metric system, a scale of measurements
designed specifically to confuse Americans. I tried to calculate the price
of a train versus the price of renting a car by creating a word problem,
but this only managed to give me a headache.
Suppose Chad has $120 and wants to travel the 384 miles from
Madrid to Barcelona, leaving him enough money to buy tapas for
dinner. Keeping in mind that there are 1.609 kilometers in a mile,
and that one dollar is worth .7601 euros, and that fuel in Spain is
called petrol, not gasoline, and that stations sell it by the litre, not the

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Spain

gallon, and the Europeans spell liter with the r and e reversed, and
that Chad isnt entirely sure he can legally drive in Spain, how many
tapas can Chad eat in one sitting?

See what I mean? There is simply no way to know which is cheaper.

The train was nice, though, and the seats reclined just enough, and as
much as I wanted to enjoy the scenic trip across eastern Spain, I wanted
to sleep even more. Four hours later, I woke up on the outskirts of
Barcelona.
I dont recall how we got from Barcelonas Sants Station to our hotel
on Gran Via de les Corts Catalanes. Im assuming we took the metro,
but its a bit of a blur, and in my notes from this part of the trip, I have
only the words Grt Ati Aroport, which isnt helpful. At the hotel, we
napped and showered, and around 8:00 p.m., we headed out to watch
the Barcelona versus Valencia match that started at 9:00 p.m., which
seemed a little late to me, but from what I gathered during my stay
there, time doesnt really work in Spain the way it works in America.
Speaking of time, I learned quickly that I needed to have patience
on my travels or I would go insane. The United States is considered a
monochromic society, meaning we value a strict schedule, view time
as a resource, equate time with money, and get rather annoyed when
we think someone is wasting our time. There are cultures that share
this view of time, but the US is on one extreme end of the spectrum. So
when we find ourselves in a country where services dont begin when
they are supposed to or trains dont arrive on schedule or the freaking waiter wont even bring me my bill, we have to remember these
things arent meant as personal slights;1 they are just parts of a different
culture.
The next day was wide open, and Jordan and I planned to see as
much of the city as possible. First stop was Sagrada Famlia, a Catholic
church designed by Antoni Gaud, who is not to be confused with
Antoni Gaudy, who I guess would have insisted that the outside of the
church be bedazzled. The church didnt look like any church Id ever
1. Unless you are wearing one of those USA: Back-to-Back World War Champs T-shirts;
then it may actually be a personal slight.

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seen, mostly because Ive never seen churches on other planets. The
front facade, or maybe its the rear facade, it was hard to tell, looks like
it is made of melting wax. Despite the fact construction began in 1882,
the church is still not finished. In 2011 officials announced construction would wrap up in 2026, or maybe 2028. Spaniards, it seems, are in
a hurry only when being chased by bulls.
For me the strangest thing about Sagrada Famila, apart from
the way it looks, is that Im not sure who will worship there once its
finished. There are many cathedrals in Europe that now function primarily as tourist attractions. Thing is, those other cathedrals at some
point were busy, functioning churches. In what many are calling post-
Christian Spain, it seems by the time Sagrada Famila is finished, it will
be a church that was always a tourist attraction first.
As in most of Western Europe, Christianity is declining in Spain. A
2011 study showed that 70.1percent of the country identify themselves
as Catholic, but another study showed a significantly lower percentage of Spaniards actually believe in God. This leads you to believe that
for many in Spain, Catholicism is more heritage than something they
practice.
As Jordan and I slowly walked around Sagrada Famila, lamenting
the fact that more churches back home arent designed by extraterrestrials, I began to wonder how much of our Christianity in the Bible Belt
has become about heritage as well. Church attendance figures on Easter
and Christmas suggest that for many, Christianity is just another tradition, though church attendance is certainly not a perfect barometer
of ones faith. But my home state of Alabama has a population of 4.8
million, and in most polls, around 90percent of Alabamians claim to
be Christian. However, there are more than twelve hundred children
waiting to be adopted in Alabamas foster care program. My wife and
I have the resources to adopt one of these children, as do thousands, if
not tens of thousands, of Alabamians, yet we dont. And standing there
in the shadow of Gauds masterpiece, a frightening thought occurred
to me. What will I tell my son when he reads the Gospels and asks
why we never adopted an orphan? Because, son, we needed that spare
bedroom for guests on football weekends. Is there an answer I can

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Spain

give him that wont cause disillusionment? Theres nothing wrong with
having a Christian heritage, but when our faith becomes a box we check
on surveys, and not a life we live, we shouldnt act surprised when the
next generation says, No, thanks.

We spent the afternoon in the Old City, smelling saltwater in the

Mediterranean breeze and strolling down La Rambla, a street whose
name literally means the Boulevard and figuratively means the
Tourist Trap. We wanted tapas and perused the sidewalk cafes, comparing the chalk menus until we settled on a place that was serving two
tapas and a pasta dish for 5. We sat down, pointed at two tapas each on
the picture menu, and both ordered seafood paella for the main course.
The tapas were okay, but the paella, topped with shrimp and mussels
straight from the Mediterranean, was so tasty I still dream about it.
I was tempted to call it the greatest cheap lunch Id ever had, but the
chalk menu failed to mention wed be paying an additional 7 for a few
lukewarm milliliters of Coca-Cola. Stupid metric system.
After lunch we wandered aimlessly through the Old City, stopping to
visit Barcelona Cathedral, an enormous five-hundred-year-old Gothic
church. Then we toured the Picasso Museum, to enjoy the works of an
artist who occasionally depicts noses with triangles. Then we went to a
Bible study. I know, kind of random.
Even though we were visiting Spain only for a soccer match, in the
weeks before the trip, I couldnt resist searching for Christian organizations in Barcelona to see if something was going on that Jordan and I
could attend. The first church I found is called the International Church
of Barcelona, and their primary goal is reaching out to the Englishspeaking community of Barcelona, and I thought, Hey, I speak English,
so I sent them an email. Turned out there was a young adults Bible
study the last night we were in town, and the leaders, John and Brandi,
said theyd love to have us.
Thanks to some confusion on the train, we arrived in the Les Planes
neighborhood of Barcelona thirty minutes late for the Bible study. Do

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you think thats the place? Jordan asked, pointing at a large white
building up the hill. I guess, I said, and we walked over to investigate.
The big white building on the hill looked a lot like someones house
when we finally reached it, and I hated to knock, because it was unlikely
the person who lived there spoke English, but I also hated to snoop
around, because the police arresting us for trespassing were just as
unlikely to speak English. Jordan knocked and no one answered, but in
their defense, he didnt knock hard. Then we walked down some stairs
to the back of the house, where we surprised a man walking outside to
make a phone call.
Uh, I eloquently began, were looking for John and Brandi.
Brandi is inside, he said and pointed toward the door hed just
exited.
We walked in and stood in the doorway. The study had obviously
not begun, as people of all races and nationalities were standing around,
drinking coffee, and conversing in various languages and accents, some
of which Im pretty sure are illegal in Alabama. We didnt know what
to do or who to talk to, but then a woman near the front of the room
shouted our names and said, Welcome! You guys come and get your
name tags.
It was Brandi, and she began taking us around the room to introduce us to members of the group. I told her I thought we were late, and
she said, Eight thirty really means nine here, at the earliest.
Jordan and I grabbed some snacks and sat down, and soon we were
talking to Kelsey Beckman, a young American from Kansas. Howd
you end up living in Barcelona? I asked her.
Have you heard of El Camino de Santiago? she asked.
I had. In English its called the Way of St. James, and though there
are numerous routes, the most famous is the five-hundred-mile trek
across northern Spain, from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port on the French
side of the Pyrenees Mountains, all the way to Santiago de Compostela,
where the remains of St. James are supposedly buried. Pilgrims have
been making this journey for centuries, and they still are today. Nearly
two hundred thousand of them walked (or biked) the Way in 2011.

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Spain

You did that? I asked, more jealous than anything else, because
Tricia said I couldnt do it without her, and that she didnt want to do
it. But if I were, lets say, a twenty-one-year-old college student reading
this book, Id put this book down and start researching the Way of St.
James for my graduation trip.2
It was, hands down, the greatest experience of my life, Kelsey said.
The whole point of my pilgrimage was to have thirty-plus days completely focused on God and his will for my life, without all the stressors
and crap that get in the way of that focus daily.
Do you think that was why most pilgrims were there?
I met some people who were there for the same reasons, but I think
more were just doing it for fun. I even met one guy from Australia who
said he was afraid hed meet all these intense Catholics and hardcore
Bible thumpers on the Way. I found it kind of odd that people would
participate in a centuries old religious tradition hoping not to encounter anything religious. But to each his own, I guess.
So you made the pilgrimage, fell in love with Spain, and decided
to stay?
I met a guy too.
Aah. So whats it like being a Christian in Spain?
Way different than I would have imagined, Kelsey said. Even
though Spain is technically a Catholic country, I have met only atheists.
And they are proud to be so. People just cant understand how I can be
twenty-six and a believer. They see Christianity as something ancient
and dead. Something that has no place in the world today, especially
for people my age. And they dont just ask if Im a Christian and drop
it when I say yes; they talk about all of the horrible things the church
has done throughout history. It can be immensely frustrating, but it has
also really challenged me and deepened my faith. At first I was always
on the defensive, but eventually I realized that living out my faith and
being an example would have way more impact than arguing.
Cesar, a thirty-five-year-old Barcelona native, told me a similar
story. In secondary school, friends would laugh at me when I said I was
2. What are you waiting for? Put this book down.

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an evangelical Christian. Young people here are rather agnostic. They

dont know about God, and they are not really interested to find out.3
Listening to Kelsey and Cesar, it dawned on me that I cannot recall
ever being laughed at for my beliefs, never mind facing persecution. In
the Bible Belt, it is still tougher to admit you are not a person of faith.
Back home, Christianity is our default setting. In contrast, Spaniards
my age were born into a dictatorship where Roman Catholicism was the
only religion with legal status, so it doesnt make much sense to compare the United States and Spain, but it does perhaps shed some light on
some of their less than positive views on the church. And as I chatted
with Kelsey and Cesar, I wondered about the different reasons a society
might turn away from Christianity. Spaniards appear to have revolted
against a heavy-handed, authoritarian church. Will the next generation
of Americans turn away from complacent comfortable Christianity? Is
this why millennials in America are already leaving the church?
At the Bible study, Jordan and I met more Americans, a guy from
Brazil, some Germans, some Chinese, perhaps a Vulcan, and even a few
Spaniards. Brandis husband, John, came in with their young daughter,
Anabelle, a little later, and Jordan and I spoke to them for a few minutes.
Christianity is different here in many ways, Brandi began. Take
alcohol. Here there is no issue with alcohol; its even served at pastors
gatherings. Our young adults constantly ask us to go out for a beer after
service. Girls here, Christian or not, wear whatever they want. Modesty
isnt talked about like it is back home. And many of our Christian
friends curse frequently and see no issue with it at all.
The study began, and Brandi had me come up front to introduce me
to the group in Spanish. Its very strange to stand in front of a group
of strangers while someone talks about you in a foreign language. I
did catch the words Dios y futbol as she held up the copy of my first
book, God and Football, which Id brought them. Then she explained
the book was about American football, and there were groans from the
soccer-loving crowd.
3. Cesar also told me that now many Latin Americans are arriving in Spain and spreading
the gospelthe Latin Americans whose ancestors heard the Good News from the Spanish.

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As they spoke that night, John in English, Brandi in Spanish,

I couldnt help but scan the room, looking at faces from around the
world. I loved it. We were not divided by countries or by race, but we
were all of Gods children, together. When the lesson ended, Brandi
prayed in Spanish, which I do not speak, but I was nevertheless moved
every time I heard her say Seor, a Spanish word for God.
As the group departed to catch the next train back to Barcelona,
Jordan and I said goodbye to Brandi and John. I told them how much
Id enjoyed Spain and explained the thoughts behind this book a little
more.
Im a wired skeptic, Brandi said. I joke with John that I often flow
in the gift of disbelief. In the States, there was enough Christian culture to propel me along. I was in constant church services, Bible studies,
girls groups, Sunday school, fellowship nightsjust constant. This created a dichotomy. I was trapped, and I was safe. I couldnt deal with the
real thoughts going through my head, yet I was in the current enough
to be lulled along from week to week to still be good and live for God.
And living here? I asked.
Living in Europe, all of those safeguards are gone. Theres no one
dragging you to church. Theres no commitment to read the Word or
pray. Theres no weekly structure that will keep you on the straight and
narrow. Here you have to want it, and you have to fight for it. Living
here has opened my mind and eyes, and has been shocking and also
liberating. I still maintain most of the fundamentals I was raised with
in the US, but I also recognize that my world is not the world.
I thought a lot about the things Brandi said as Jordan and I waited
at Les Planes station for the train to take us back into Barcelona, and
Ive thought about them a lot since then. Its important to reflect on how
much of my faith is shaped by where I live on a map. Im thankful to
have grown up in Alabama, I truly am, but talking to people who have
their faith questioned on a daily basis, I felt keenly aware of how complacent my own faith had become. How complacent most of us have
become in the comfortable Bible Belt. I could be wrong heremy next
seminary course will be my firstbut when I read the New Testament,

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I dont see any promises of a comfortable life. I usually see promises of

the opposite. But comfortable might be the perfect word to describe life
back home. Its really only when people make their lives uncomfortable,
by giving away possessions or adopting a bunch of children, that we
start questioning them and calling them zealots. I dont want you to
think Im yearning for the days of a post-Christian America, though
those days very well may be coming. Its just that Jesus said the world
would hate us because of him, and Ive never really felt it. Maybe if my
Christian life feels comfortable, Im doing it wrong.

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ENGLAND
I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in
his hand,
walking through the streets of Soho in the
rain.

F E BRUA RY

2 01 2

Warren Zevon, Werewolves of London

49

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England

he next morning, Jordan and I flew from Barcelona to London,

both of us marveling at the snow-covered Pyrenees, which we,
geography whizzes that we are, both referred to as the Alps. We landed
at Gatwick Airport, the Stephen Baldwin to London Heathrows Alec,
then took a crowded train to Victoria Station in central London, where
all of the earths people had apparently just gathered for a flash mob.
The soulful sounds of a jackhammer echoed throughout the station,
a booming, Orwellian voice kept reminding us all to mind the gap,
and my overstuffed suitcase and I just wanted to buy a tube pass and get
out of everyones way. But instead Jordan and I found ourselves holding
up the ticket line because we had no idea what zone we needed to travel
to. Twilight? Auto? It was all so confusing.
Generally speaking, visiting England is much easier than visiting other European countries. This is because they speak English,
or at least a form of it that somehow makes them all sound smarter.1
However, after two minutes inside the mosh pit that is Victoria Station,
I was on the brink of a nervous collapse. Finally I hid in a dark corner
while Jordan bought our tube passes. An hour later we checked in to
our hotel.
By now we felt like the power had blinked and our internal clocks
had been flashing 12:00 for who knows how long, so we opted for naps
over sightseeing, waking in time to make the Friday evensong service
at St. Pauls.
St. Pauls Cathedral, named for the apostle, not the Beatle, was
founded in 604 AD. Four buildings preceded the one whose Great West
Door we found ourselves shivering in front of that February evening,
this newest version constructed in 1677.
When we stepped into the nave of St. Pauls, our eyes instinctively
darted up to the ornate ceiling, down to the black-and-white checkered floor, then behind us to the stern gentleman asking us to please
pocket our cameras. As we walked east toward the 225-foot dome, our
1. They do not, however, use the euro, opting instead for something called the pound, a
magical currency that, instead of making everything you buy cost 50percent more, makes
everything you buy cost 100percent more.

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footsteps echoed over hushed voices. I reached into my pocket for the
third time in a minute, making extra sure my cell phone was on vibrate.
Jordan and I stood under the center of the dome, craning our necks
to look up past the Whispering Gallery to the eight paintings of the life
of St. Paul. Then we took our seats, neither of us speaking as we continued to gaze at the quire, which is how the Church of England spells
choir, which actually makes more sense and is worth a lot more points
on Words with Friends.
A month before leaving for England, I spoke to Jason, a friend of
a friend and a real-life Englishman. I asked him about Christianity in
England over the last one hundred years, and he said, I think one of
the reasons the church in England is perhaps losing popularity is that
its perceived as being, I suppose, somewhat hypocritical, in that they
have a message of reaching out to the least among us, and yet at the
same time they are harboring vast wealth.
I certainly understood the tension in what Jason said. Ive heard
similar grumbles from church members over new multi-million-dollar
building campaigns, so I can imagine how the unchurched members of
the community must view us. When I read books like Radical by David
Platt, I began to feel guilty that the church has ever spent one dime on
a building. I cringe at the thought of ten-million-dollar building campaigns when there are so many people starving to death. But when I sit
in a breathtaking church like St. Pauls and I marvel at the masterpiece
of architects and artisans, some of whom worshiped God through their
craft, I have trouble feeling the guilt I have toward modern buildings.
Perhaps this is hypocritical, but perhaps Im a hypocrite.
During the service, I felt the chill bumps on my arms as the words
to the Magnificat echoed through what, for 252 years, was the tallest
building in London. And I grew a little misty-eyed as I heard my own
cracking voice joining the multitudes who for centuries have said, As
it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
Amen.
The beautiful service lasted an hour and included, of all things, a
prayer for the Diocese of Arkansas, which elicited bewildered glances

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between Jordan and me, both of us half-expecting the pastor to lead

us in calling the hogs. Afterward we ate at an Italian restaurant across
the street and between bites of pizza briefly pondered the theological ramifications of our asking God to save the queen, but mostly we
talked about soccer. Then, before retiring to our hotel for the evening,
we made a quick stop at Piccadilly Circus, which isnt a circus at all, just
a busy road junction, but hey, at least there were no clowns.

Tricia believes I am convinced that the constraints of space and time

do not apply to me while traveling. She constantly has to remind me
there is not enough time in the day to see and do all of the things I
think should be seen and done. Unfortunately for me, and especially
for Jordan, Tricia did not help plan this trip to London, which is why at
5:00 a.m. on Saturday morning the alarm rudely began our day.
Two hours later, as our train slowly crept out from Paddington
Station, Jordan woke up enough to ask the obvious question: Why did
we have to take such an early train?
Regrettably, the obvious question did not have an equally obvious
answer. Truth is, a 7:00 a.m. train didnt seem that early when I booked
it two months earlier, in the middle of the afternoon. Hearing this, I
figured, would only make Jordan resent me for the rest of the day, so I
shrugged and said, Youll have to ask Tricia; she booked it.
Our early departure was made even less pleasant by the fact that
England was waking up from the coldest night of the winter, with temperatures dipping into the middle teens. We both shivered while gazing
out the window at field after field covered in snow, where even the
horses were wearing thick wool blankets.
An hour later, we were at the Oxford railway station, which is half a
mile west of the city of Oxford. We quickly walked down Botley Road,
hands in pockets, teeth chattering. And unlike C. S. Lewis, who on
his first visit to the City of Dreaming Spires apparently left the station
going the wrong way and actually walked to Botley, we walked straight
to Oxford, stopping at the first coffee shop we saw.

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JESUS WITHOUT BORDERS

What Planes, Trains, and Rickshaws Taught
Me about Jesus
By Chad Gibbs
Chad Gibbs has lived his entire life in Alabama, the
buckle of Americas Bible Belt, where Christianity is a
persons default setting. In Jesus Without Borders,
Gibbs steps outside of his very comfortable
existence, to learn what its like to be a Christian
anywhere else in the world.
Over the course of many months, Chad and his
Alabama worldview spent time with believers from
Beijing to Rio de Janeiro, worshiping with them and
observing not only how their faith influences their
daily lives but also how their daily lives influence
their faith, in hopes of learning which parts of his
faith have been compromised by the American
Dream.
Told with Gibbs trademark humor, Jesus Without
Borders enlightens and entertains, introducing
readers to believers around the world in hopes of
eliminating prejudices and misconceptions, clearing
away the parts of our culture that keep us from
seeing a clearer picture of Christ, and living
connected to the family of faith around the globe.

Get Your Copy of Jesus without Borders!

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